


Goodbye To All My Darkness (There's Nothing Here But Light)

by ElloPoppet



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Dialogue, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Confessions, Declarations Of Love, Empathy Bond, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Episode Related, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hand Jobs, Hand appreciation, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Non-Chronological, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining, Self-Hatred, Smut, Song Lyrics, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24418102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElloPoppet/pseuds/ElloPoppet
Summary: Geralt of Rivia made his way to Kaer Morhen during the Summer of the 78th year of his life, believing himself ill.*“Some would consider the extraordinarily rare gift of a soulmate something to be grateful for, Geralt. A side effect of your mutation to be celebrated. Although, I can understand why having an empathic bond with a newborn creature might be making youfeel a bit bratty.”Minutes of silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the sounds of the wind whipping through the valley outside. Eventually, Geralt lifted his head and stood.“Fuck.” He said after a time, with finality.“Hmm,” Vesemir agreed.*In the 97th year of his life, Geralt met a bard named Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 173
Kudos: 1605
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Geralt is Sorry, Geralt/Jaskier Fics I can't stop thinking about, Just.... So cute..., The Witcher





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kemmastan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kemmastan/gifts).



> Hi there!
> 
> I have become obsessed with the Witcher show, namely with a particular bard, and therefore Joey Batey, and THEREFORE the Amazing Devil (there will be no less than four references to the Amazing Devil lyrics in this fic, I'll shout them out in end notes!). This fic is 90% based on the show, with a wee bit of video game and book research done and included as well. Be gentle; I'm ignorant as fuck and still learning so much about this fandom!
> 
> I wrote this as a gift for for my good pal Kemmastan (happy graduation!!!), who gave me an excellent and challenging prompt to include: Soulmate AU, Joey Batey hand appreciation, and very specific Amazing Devil lyrics! I've never written a soulmate AU before and wanted it to be a little bit different, so here's to hoping I did okay. 
> 
> A big thank you to FadedSepia for being an amazing beta for this chapter! 
> 
> Some direct dialogue quoted from The Witcher s1e2 and s1e6.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> -EP

Geralt of Rivia made his way to Kaer Morhen during the Summer of the 78th year of his life, believing himself ill. 

There was no other reason to return outside of Winter, and his visit was unexpected. Vesemir was visibly surprised to see him make his way up the stone steps, going so far as to cock a white eyebrow at the tears welling in Geralt’s eyes. 

“You’re troubled,” Vesemir offered in welcome. 

“You don’t fucking say.” Geralt growled in reply, wiping away the drops now rolling down his cheeks. “It - _this_ \- keeps fucking happening, and there’s something wrong, broken, in my chest. You,” Geralt pointed a finger sternly toward Vesemir’s girthy abdomen, aiming for threatening but coming across only as scattered, “need to fucking _fix_ it.”

Vesemir’s face went slack, something akin to comprehension dawning across his features. “You’re overwhelmed.”

Geralt bore his teeth in a feral grimace. 

“With _emotion_.” 

“I will fucking-”

“Come inside. Eat. And stop pointing that damn thing at me, boy.” Vesemir turned and walked inside the entrance to the fortress. After a few moments of clenching and unclenching his fists, Geralt followed, wiping away a wave of fresh tears as he did.

*

“‘His soul has been torn and will remain frayed, to be darned back together by a kindred soul.’” Geralt’s eyes, the yellows hued orange by the redness of the surrounding sclera, looked up from the parchment to meet Vesemir’s from where he sat across the table, soup bowls empty between them. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“She didn’t give much more than that. Have you known sorceresses to be very forthcoming?” Vesemir asked calmly, clutching a scant few other pieces of paper in his hand, none of which had provided Geralt with any further insight into his current condition. 

“Hmm.” 

Geralt reread the parchment, over and again. “You knew this would happen, ever since the Trial.” The lack of inflection didn’t escape Vesemir. He nodded once; no use in lying. 

“You nearly died, after the experiments. After becoming Gwynbleidd. Your body, your soul … your mutations responded in a novel way. You know this.” Geralt didn’t acknowledge Vesemir’s words, but he didn’t look away either. Vesemir pushed forward. “We consulted with healers, and with a sorceress. The healers weren’t worth the buckets they shat in, and the sorceress? She got your blood pumping, scorned us for tearing you apart, and told us that, right there.”

Quiet fell over them, and after a moment Geralt’s head fell slightly before jerking suddenly. 

“Fucking fuck!” He roared, slamming closed fists on the table. Vesemir simply waited. 

“I can’t sleep! I’m on edge constantly, rarely do I feel secure, my chest feels heavy with panic so unpredictably and the fucking _tears,_ Vesemir! Have I gone mad? Or was she right? Do I have …” Geralt deflated then, his shoulders relaxing visibly, tension draining. He closed his eyes and sighed. 

“Feeling … comforted? Cared for, and secure?” Vesemir wagered, and Geralt’s eyes flew open. 

“Congratulations are in order then?” Vesemir said, trying with some difficulty not to smile. 

“You did this to me.” It was a statement lacking in malice; a reminder, nearly a plea, and Geralt lay his head down on the table, resting his forehead directly on the wood. 

“Some would consider the extraordinarily rare gift of a soulmate something to be grateful for, Geralt. A side effect of your mutation to be celebrated. Although, I can understand why having an empathic bond with a newborn creature might be making you _feel a bit bratty._ ”

Minutes of silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the sounds of the wind whipping through the valley outside. Eventually, Geralt lifted his head and stood, though he didn’t move from that spot, cemented on his feet, staring down at the parchment inked with the handwriting of the sorceress. 

“Fuck.” He said after a time, with finality.

“Hmm,” Vesemir agreed. 

Geralt left the next morning, the parchment folded in his pocket and a handful of carrots for Roach in his fist. 

*

Regardless of hours of meditation, discipline, and countless pints of ale, Geralt could not ever fully master the skill of numbing his soulmate’s emotions. They slipped through his meticulously crafted shields like slivers; bursts of joy like crackling embers, seething fits of rage like roiling storm clouds, and bouts of heartbreak so sharp and incessant that Geralt wondered not infrequently if his other half had received the sentiment that Geralt had had trained from him, all of it stuffed into their piece of the shared soul. They experienced their feelings deeply, this soulmate of his, and Geralt _fucking hated them_ for it. 

As the years slipped by, it became easier to ignore the sensations that crackled within his breastbone and took residence beneath his skin, and sometimes Geralt found that he could go weeks or even months without taking conscious notice of what his soulmate might be going through. When he did, it was often after a particularly nasty battle with a monster, typically when a near miss was involved. Twelve years after the birth of his soulmate, Geralt nearly lost an eye to a fiend and it infuriated him to no end; for hours afterward, sickening waves of confusion, fear, and anger pulsed through the bond that he shared with his companion. 

It had taken that long, _twelve shitting years_ , for Geralt to recognize that the empathetic bond went both ways. 

For reasons that he couldn’t exactly pinpoint, or perhaps didn’t care to examine too closely, Geralt was careful to keep his rage in check after that realization had dawned on him. He tried to temper down the bitterness that arose when he was chased from town to town by folk accusing him of being a monstrous bastard, tried to numb the rivers of shame that would often crash down around him after he’d pay for a fuck from a whore when his need for physical touch became too great to bear for even a moment longer. 

Once his soulmate entered into their young adult years, no amount of spirits or opium could numb the burden of guilt that would stick to Geralt for weeks after he began to realize that he was also sharing in their arousal. It was a curse, this _bond_ , this wretched _torn apart excuse_ for a soul that he carried within him. 

Geralt believed in nothing, but there were moments when he nearly sent prayer to Melitele that he would never have to carry the weight of crossing paths with this person, the other half of his being. He didn’t know if he could handle the disgust that would undoubtedly be etched on their face, the rightful anger that would spew forth from their lips once they realized who they were destined to share their connection with for their natural life. 

Geralt nearly prayed, many times, for the sake of his kindred spirit, and also for the sake of himself, because Geralt? He had spent a lifetime with himself already and knew how adept he was at tarnishing things not meant to be tarnished. He would ruin this person, this soulmate of his, and while he carried the knowledge with him that it would likely destroy their fragile heart, he also knew that it would be a task easier for him than stepping on a bug on the ground. 

And then?

In the 97th year of his life, Geralt met a bard named Jaskier. 

*

It wasn’t until Filavandrel released them that Geralt realized that his soulmate _was the fucking bard._

Everything prior to their capture and subsequent emancipation had made sense, after all: the instantaneous feelings of lust that prickled up Geralt’s spine as their eyes had initially met and roved over each other at the tavern; the feelings of disbelief both when Geralt had allowed for Jaskier to follow him _and_ when he had socked the dark-haired lad in his abdomen; the hum of relief when the elves had come to their senses and let them go on their way. _It made sense, damn it,_ that those sensations would belong to Geralt, and not for a moment did he believe them to belong to the bard who was, for some unknown reason, still following him even after their lives had been spared. 

Geralt’s adrenaline had been spiking during the ordeal itself, far too heavily to have paid attention to the bond, to what his soulmate was experiencing at the time. Afterward, however, with his nerves leveling out and his resolve returning, Geralt felt something different, something _off_ , which could only mean that his other half was having _a moment_. It was an intense moment, it seemed, and Geralt’s eyebrows drew together as he mounted Roach and tried to parse out the emotion buzzing within him. 

_Awe. Surprise. Veneration._

“That whole reverse-psychology thing you did on them was brilliant, by the way,” the bard was saying from where he walked a few feet behind. A few more words followed, and something tickled in Geralt’s mind. 

“Filavandrel’s lute not gift enough for you?” Geralt asked, thinking quickly on his feet in response to Jaskier’s offhand comment about Nettly’s coin. 

The emotions within him shifted into something akin to sunshine, a brightness that at times had brought to mind the taste of citrus over the last nineteen years when Geralt had experienced his soulmate’s joy over the bond. 

“Yeah, she is a bit sexy, isn’t she?” 

Jaskier’s response rested within Geralt’s ears, and though their conversation continued and was even briefly followed by a few bars of song, Geralt found himself barely present. 

He knew. In that moment, in that second, Geralt was burdened with the knowledge that he had been dreading for nearly two decades. 

“This is where we part ways, bard, for good,” he tried hastily, sparing the briefest glance toward Jaskier while trying to keep himself stable and stoic, balanced and numb. Geralt knew, but Jaskier? Jaskier seemed none the wiser. Perhaps Geralt could leave this man (his _fucking soulmate_ ) relatively unharmed after all. 

Geralt, for the briefest of moments, believed so strongly that he could part ways with the owner of half of his soul without destroying him that he was nearly dizzy with the relief that it brought. 

A comment and a heartbeat later, Jaskier strummed his long, nimble fingers along the strings of his lute, and started to sing. 

_“When a humble bard_

_Graced a ride along_

_With Geralt of Rivia…”_

Geralt’s eyes slid closed at the sound of his name slipping through the lips of the poet beside him, and just as he knew with certainty that Jaskier’s soul was as frayed and jagged as his, Geralt also knew in that moment what it was like to feel the faintest of mending beginning. 

A bard, singing his name. His heart, skipping a beat. 

_Fuck_. 

*

Over the next twenty-two years, Geralt travelled with Jaskier during the sunny and fair-weather seasons. Winters were spent apart; Jaskier, being the human that he was, couldn’t manage the elements as Geralt could and required safekeeping within shelter, often finding work within larger towns or doing years-long stints at Oxenfurt when the mood struck him just right. Geralt, on the other hand, found himself working through the long stretches of cold and driven snow, or more often returning to Kaer Morhen. 

The Winters within the fortress had been wrought with intent, attended with vigorous training, meditation and tormenting hours, days and nights spent locked alone and isolated. Geralt wasn’t simply seeking shelter or the company of fellow witchers in the valley during the earliest Winters after finding Jaskier; he sought refuge at Kaer Morhen with the single-minded purpose to create a deeper, more impenetrable barrier between himself and his ability to _feel_ , both his own sentiments and those that belonged to Jaskier himself.

There was something that Geralt hadn’t known about soulmates prior to meeting his own, and if he _had_ been made privy to such information, it was probable and likely even avowed that he would have abandoned Jaskier immediately following their release by the elves. If Geralt had been aware that the bond between soulmates would be dripping with such affection, such suffocating _adoration_ , he perhaps would have taken to task ending himself or even Jaskier right then. 

It would have been a kindness to either of them. 

Rather, Geralt had folded like a flimsy reed in a powerful wind, and it had led him to winters spent punishing himself as he learned to drive his emotions deeper and deeper beneath the surface. It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault, after all; the bard hadn’t chosen to be born affixed to a monster, had no control over the feelings of devotion and endearment that Geralt felt gripping him on the inside whenever their eyes met across the firelight. Had less control than Geralt had, surely. Because while Geralt was willing to accept that they were bonded by Destiny, he also suspected that he would have been pulled into this wretched, bubbling hotspring of desire and need for Jaskier even without Destiny’s fucking interference. 

*

Geralt fell in love with Jaskier’s hands before he grew to cherish the rest of him. How there were people, fae, beasts or other creatures who could encounter the bard and not become enraptured with the bend of his long fingers, the way that they _danced_ and _pressed_ over the strings of his instrument, Geralt would never understand. 

The first time that Jaskier laid his fingers on Geralt’s bare skin, he’d been sure that the secret of their soulbond would be revealed due to his own traitorous heart nearly leaping through the confines of his chest. 

They’d only been travelling together a year or two at the time, and Jaskier had proven himself to be less of an annoyance than Geralt had predicted, but not entirely without risk. 

“...and the Archduchess had the audacity to accuse me of being the one to do it! Can you believe the nerve? And they call her a lady, Geralt. They should be calling her a-”

“Jaskier, stop!”

In one fell swoop, Geralt had moved before the thought had fully formed in his mind to do so and he found himself off of Roach’s back, having jumped directly in front of Jaskier in a matter of less than a second. Pain exploded in his right ankle as the iron-clawed trap, well hidden beneath the long grasses, clamped shut around his leg. 

Jaskier gasped loudly and jumped forward, grabbing Geralt’s arms with both of his hands as his eyes widened at the sight before him. 

“Shit. Shit! Geralt, fucking _shit_ , what did you do that for?! What do I need to do, how do I-”

Jaskier clamped his mouth closed and dropped his hands as Geralt shook him off, prying the trap from his leg with little strain. Jaskier’s easy awe mingled with Geralt’s annoyance in his gut. Geralt bent the hinges of the trap back until it snapped in half, and he threw it to the side. 

“Next time, you can watch your own fucking path,” Geralt bit out, putting weight on his injured foot before gingerly lifting it back up from the ground. Jaskier winced, and Geralt heaved a sigh. “Right now, you can get my satchel, bring it here.” 

Jaskier did as he was told and fixed himself beside Geralt as he tore the bottom of his pant leg upward, revealing where the teeth of the trap had dug into the meat of his leg. He was bleeding, slick and heavy, though already slowing. 

“Wet a clean-” Geralt began to instruct Jaskier before realizing it was unnecessary as Jaskier’s hands came into view, a clean and visibly moistened rag in one of them. Without a word, Jaskier settled one of his hands directly onto Geralt’s leg, a few inches above his injury, and began to dab the blood away from his wounds with the other. He worked quickly; the towel leached away the blood and became tinged in sickly hues of crimson and pink. Geralt was glad to be done with it when Jaskier tossed it aside and, no matter how badly Geralt wanted to assess his own clear wounds, he couldn’t peel his eyes from Jaskier’s hand on his skin, even as he was aware that Jaskier had single-handedly opened a tincture bottle, and the correct one at that. 

His hand was smooth and warm against Geralt’s leg, his grasp firmer than Geralt would have expected. Jaskier was smaller than he, but in many ways just so; the way his fingers splayed over his skin brought Geralt up short and made it hard for him to draw breath. He hadn’t thought it possible for Jaskier to _cover_ so much of him with just his hand, his palm and those deft fingers of his, and yet here he was, grounded by a single touch as Jaskier competently went about cleaning him, mending him. 

“There we are,” Jaskier said, removing his hand and leaving Geralt’s skin cold and exposed. Geralt longed for the contact all at once, and remembered that breathing was required to keep his mask held firm over his side of the bond. He inhaled deeply and nodded once at Jaskier. 

“Not bad, bard.”

Jaskier ducked his head, packing supplies back into Geralt’s bag. “I _can_ pay attention, you know! I’m to be ready if you ever get yourself truly down and out and fucked beyond repair.” 

“Hmm.” 

It was later that night, after setting up camp and coming to rest on their bedrolls, when Jaskier turned toward him, settled the tips of his exquisite fingers on Geralt’s wrist, and whispered “Thank you, you giant idiot,” that Geralt realized he was in love.

*

Over the years, Geralt would come to understand that Jaskier's mind was another thing to be revered. It put together words and prose, lyrics and music in moments and seconds. Geralt would never admit his fascination with the process of it, merely because _he didn’t fucking understand it_ , but it was something that he admired nonetheless. 

Jaskier’s creative process would cause issues for Geralt at times, in that Jaskier would make the strangest requests to “assist me with crafting my greatest ballad, Geralt! The one that I will be known for long after I shuffle from my mortal coil, because I’ll be damned if my greatest gift to the world is ‘Toss a Coin.’”

Jaskier would then become a demanding hummingbird of a man, flitting around Geralt, barraging him with questions or orders.

“Tell me everything about what it takes to kill a vampire?”

“Stare off into the sun, just there, I’m just going to look at you, shut up, your brooding is _magnificent_.”

“Geralt, say something, just anything, a word, a sentence, the first thought that popped into that big, witchery brain of yours when you woke up this morning-”

“I hope today is a day steeped in silence and stillness.”

“Oh, _ha bloody ha_ , he has jokes; jokes! And nobody would believe me, even if I told them, that the Butcher of Blaviken has _jokes_...”

The issue with this process was that there were only ever three outcomes; Geralt would become increasingly annoyed and frustrated (which meant Jaskier would become annoyed, frustrated, and _confused as to why_ ), Geralt would become amused at the entire ordeal (which meant Jaskier’s laugh would spread like wildfire around them, creating an entirely new issue for Geralt), or Geralt would suffer the weight of utter endearment toward his bard and his artistic shenanigans, and that? 

That would lead Jaskier to write, and pluck, and sing, and _feel_. The feedback loop that it would create across their bond would become nearly overwhelming and that was when Jaskier was at his best and also when Geralt was at his most desperate. 

He loved Jaskier, and at times he hated how beautiful his mind was, how easily he could nearly be stirred to tears by his voice and the music that plucked from his lute, late into the night. 

*

Geralt had never bedded a man before. He’d lived a long life, many years longer than most, and, aside from Yennefer and the few other partners who had sought him into their beds by their own choice, he had only been warmed by coin-paid women. The fact that his soulmate wasn’t female was of no concern to him initially, before he had come to the assumption that the soulmate bond must also bring with it the bond of romantic affection. Once he had come to that realization, he couldn’t find it within himself to be bothered by Jaskier’s gender, regardless. Wanting Jaskier came to Geralt as easily as breathing, as meditating, as hunting. There were no feelings of panic, confusion, or fear involved in the way that Geralt desired Jaskier’s body or touch, and so, aside from the fact that Geralt refused to ruin Jaskier by pursuing him in the way that he burned to do so, Jaskier being a man was a non-issue. 

Well, except for when it _was_ an issue. 

The first time that Jaskier took it upon himself to slip into the bath with Geralt, they had been friends for fifteen years. Geralt had been paid handsomely for delivering on a contract for two ghouls, his coin purse growing even heavier in the hours spent in the tavern after. He had Jaskier to thank for that; his voice filling the spaces between bodies in the place, singing of Geralt’s conquests, brought them enough coin to afford the biggest room with the nicest tub and the hottest water at the inn above their heads for the night. 

Geralt had taken it upon himself to slip away from the tavern while Jaskier was distracted by the act of performing, seeking solace in the comfort of scalding water and the silence of their room before Jaskier would undoubtedly barge in, ale-languid and adrenaline-loud. Geralt appreciated those nights and moments with his friend as well; but alas, he took the opportunity for balance whenever he could find it. 

He all but moaned when he sank his body into the steaming bath, which was nearly the size of a royal tub, enough room for three of him. He spread himself out, stretching his muscles and flexing his legs at the knees beneath the water, working out the familiar aches and twinges of travel and battle. The luxury of heated baths was one that he would readily admit he would jump through hoops for; even witchers desired simple pleasures and delights. 

How much time had passed, he wasn’t sure, but Geralt knew that the water was still on the blistering side of hot when his eyes sprang open from his meditation due to a loud exclamation coming from the other side of the tub. 

“Fucking Melitele’s left tit, Geralt! If I get in here, I may die! I hope the thought of bard soup with an aftertaste of lavender soap entices you.” Jaskier was babbling from where he stood, directly in front of Geralt and in the bath, water nearly reaching his knees in the overly large bathtub. 

“Such blasphemy,” Geralt grunted, the only thing he could think of to say as his mind flashed into shocked nothingness. He’d seen Jaskier’s body, laid out before him in bits and pieces over the years of course as they’d traveled, but never quite like this. Unashamed, arms at his sides as he allowed his feet and calves to adjust to the piping hot water, Jaskier’s naked flesh lay before Geralt as a feast might, mouthwatering and welcoming. Geralt did all he could to avoid noticing the curves of Jaskier’s clavicles and the dusting of chest hair, the pink of his nipples and the shadowed bend of his hips. 

Jaskier scoffed. “You, scolding me for being blasphemous? That’s hilarious, Mr. Fuck-and-Mutter.” He slid into the water all at once and yelped. 

Geralt felt his lips curve up, unable to stop himself from letting out a small laugh. Their joint amusement bloomed in his chest. 

“Ah, see, and just as I say that you go and mess it all up. Mr. Fuck-and-Mutter-and-Giggle-Once-a-Decade, then. Christ, it’s hot in here, you brute. It feels so nice on my feet, though. You know, with all of the walking that I do.” 

“Hmm.” Geralt sat up and leaned over the tub, picking up a small bottle of soap. “Stop talking. Come here.” 

Jaskier didn’t argue with him (blessedly), and in seconds Geralt found himself staring into those _fucking dazzling_ eyes, Jaskier having settled on his knees between Geralt’s spread legs. His bard held one of his hands out expectantly, waiting on Geralt’s direction for him to help wash his hair, as was their standard routine. 

Geralt shook his head minutely. “No. Mine is clean already. Yours needs washing.”

Jaskier stared. 

_Confusion. Fear. Excitement._

“Turn around, Jaskier.”

Jaskier did as he was told, and Geralt spent the time soaping up Jaskier’s soft locks and silently cursing their bond. He knew how much he loved having Jaskier’s hands in his own hair, massaging his scalp, and how aroused he would become; with Jaskier’s back to him then, and Geralt’s hands in his hair, Geralt bit his lip hard enough to bleed in an effort to hold back the whimper of heat threatening to burst forth from his throat. Knowing that Jaskier must be feeling his want and his desire, that the bard perhaps even felt it himself, did nothing to help: yet Geralt continued, unwilling to let his hands leave Jaskier’s scalp, hesitant event to let go once his hair was shiny and clean, the water running clear as it rinsed the soap away. 

Geralt had never bedded a man before, had never really wanted to, but he found that it didn’t matter. Every part of him desired every part of Jaskier, deliciously and torturously so. 

*

Jaskier, not in the least, had a _heart_. A fast-beating, quick to break and painfully loyal human heart, but one that Geralt knew inside and out, and had since the moment Jaskier had drawn breath. He felt a pounding sense of guilt over that at times; Geralt would always know Jaskier better, had always been aware of him since the moment of his birth and arrival into the world. He was a voyeur, and he _knew_. He wished he didn’t know … most of the time. 

Geralt was grateful to know of Jaskier’s tendencies to be pure of heart, however, starting with Geralt himself. Jaskier had approached him at the tavern, had followed him willingly across the land and into the mouths of monsters. Jaskier trusted Geralt, built a reputation for Geralt, _helped_ Geralt afford inns with large, warm baths and beds and warm meals. Jaskier treated Geralt like a man, rather than a monster. 

And, as if that wasn’t enough to make Geralt want to wrap himself around Jaskier for the entirety of eternity, Jaskier showed the same kindness and respect to most all living creatures along the way during their travels together. 

“Geralt.” A nudge to his shoulder. Geralt’s eyes opened, yellow to match the sun on the horizon. 

“Hm?”

“Geralt, there’s something … and it’s horrific looking but I think it’s hurt and I found it when I went over to the tree for a piss.” 

It was a newly born parazeugl, bleeding and struggling to breathe. They stood above its small and writhing body, Jaskier worrying his thumbs and fingers together. 

“It was likely abandoned by its Mother. Attacked by something, hard to say what, and dragged for quite a long way from its home. They clean the sewers, mostly. They mean no harm.” Geralt opened his mouth to continue and found himself hesitating, feeling a swelling of resignation building over the bond. He looked over to Jaskier. “It won’t survive.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier bit out, nodding his head. “I know.”

Geralt killed it swiftly with his hunting knife, and within seconds the creature’s jerking had stilled. Geralt took its body to a nearby stream and tossed it gently into the babbling waters; food for the fish within. He was cleaning his hands in the banks when he heard Jaskier step lightly behind him. 

“I’m sorry for waking you. The thing, the parageezle?”

“Parazeugl.”

“Parazeugl. I didn’t want it to suffer and I was too weak to kill it myself.”

_Shame. Anger. Gratitude._

“It’s fine, Jaskier. Not wanting to take a life when there’s another option within reach doesn’t make you weak.”

When Geralt looked up to meet his eyes, Jaskier’s surprise at his words hung between them. Geralt considered the man standing above him, a man who traveled with a witcher, who witnessed the slaughter of monsters at the hands of a twisted and fucked up mutant, whose heart was too large to let a small and wounded parazeugl suffer to death any longer than necessary. Geralt feared that his adoration for the bard would bleed through his carefully constructed barrier, or that his resolve would crumble and he would reach out for Jaskier himself, and so he stood and silently made his way back to camp. 

*

It was as simple as that, really. Geralt would have cherished Jaskier, soulbond be damned, but Jaskier? He was innocent, helpless within the pile of blood and shit that was Geralt’s long life, and the loop of Geralt’s own affection feeding back into Jaskier’s body and mind was doing nothing to disentangle him from even being able to escape. Geralt knew down to the marrow of his bones that the stubborn fool would _refuse_ to detach himself, would find the notion of being soulmates bloody _romantic_ if Geralt were to ever come forth with what he knew. 

Therefore, Winter after Winter, Geralt returned to his training to do what he could, to try to suffocate any feeling, any emotions that rose to the surface within him. It worked for a stretch and they co-existed for a time, through nightmares, political fuckery and, for a time, even the shitshow that was Geralt’s desperate attempts at building something with Yennefer (with a little bit of help from the djinn, of course). 

And then. 

Standing on a mountainside, after twenty-two years of companionship, Geralt opened his mouth and spewed vitriol outward to his soulmate. 

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

The words echoed within him, every one of them ringing with truth. It was fucking _torturous_ to love Jaskier, to carry the weight of knowledge that they were Destined for each other while also knowing that Geralt would never, _could never_ provide the life and security that his bard deserved. He felt it sometimes, through their bond; the pain, the worry, mixed with confusion and bone-tired weariness at times when Jaskier turned his focus to him. 

The icy shock of hurt and pain that pulled away all of the stitching between them over the last decades scorched through Geralt’s body with the utterance of those ugly words, and he knew that the agony belonged to the both of them in tandem. 

Geralt could hear the friction of Jaskier’s lovely fingers rubbing together as he grasped for a response, for something to say; a habit that Geralt was as familiar with as if it were one of his own. 

“Right, uh. Right, then. I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others.” A pause and more anxious rubbing of flesh against flesh. Geralt ached to turn, to plead for forgiveness and grovel on the dusty ground for Jaskier to not go anywhere, to _never_ fucking leave him. 

_This is what you’ve wanted. This is what’s right. Let him go, you heartless bastard._

“See you around, Geralt.”

Geralt’s carefully built walls weren’t near strong enough to fight against the emotions that crashed against them when he heard Jaskier turn from him then. 

_Heartbreak. Defeat. Abandonment._

In the 119th year of his life, Geralt of Rivia closed his eyes against a tidal wave of grief as his soulmate walked away from him, leaving him alone and empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. I angsted.
> 
> Also: The title comes from lyrics to the Amazing Devil song 'Farewell Wanderlust.' The small portion of the note from the sorceress that mentions souls being 'darned back together' is inspired by lyrics to their song 'The Rockrose and the Thistle.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dearest Kemmastan; I hope this was worth the wait! Congratulations on your graduation, friend <3
> 
> Another thank you to FadedSepia, my incredibly brilliant beta, who made this so much better. 
> 
> There are a few more Amazing Devil lyrics sprinkled throughout this chapter, to be highlighted in the end notes. 
> 
> Thank you for the amazing response to the first chapter! Every comment and kudos brought me so much joy. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> -EP

Geralt had lived through years of death, loss, torture, fighting, scarring, trials, tribulations, manipulation, prejudice, shit, piss and countless vile situations. One hundred nineteen years of experiencing and witnessing some of the worst that humanity and life had to offer, and he had trudged on, day after day, because what other choice did he have? He had been born, abandoned, and twisted into something meant to kill and rid the world of monsters. His mere existence was one filled with countless days of living nightmares that he brushed off, tamped down, and pushed through. Geralt was a witcher; overcoming was what he did. 

Geralt lasted five days without Jaskier. 

It was an overly dramatic way to think about time, surely, as they had gone periods of years without seeing one another since first meeting in the tavern. Their goodbyes had always tasted bitter on Geralt’s tongue, but never permanent; their farewells always punctuated with sentiments of ‘until we meet again.’ It had always been different - so _vastly_ different - than the seemingly endless hours that stretched over the four sleepless nights following Geralt’s explosion on the mountainside. 

Geralt didn’t require as much sleep as human men, but it wasn’t often that he struggled to sleep when he found it necessary to do so. (Never mind the bout of insomnia that had led to the unfortunate business with the djinn; he did his best to push that shit from his mind entirely.) Following Jaskier’s departure, that changed drastically, and in such a way that Geralt was positive he would go mad with it. 

His body _seared_ with agony, fresh acidic waves crashing over and around him whenever he recalled the undeserved hatred that he had shoveled upon Jaskier (or, Geralt knew, whenever Jaskier was recalling the same). For days Geralt was lost in a cloud of confusion, in uncertainty as to whether his organically-owned pain and regret hurt worse than the first-hand knowledge of just how badly he had fucked with Jaskier. 

Just as he had always known he would, Geralt had broken his soulmate. What he hadn’t expected was that in doing so, he had also succeeded in ripping himself apart. Jaskier had been so many things to Geralt; a travelling companion, a confidant (though Geralt confided very little), a friend, even a source of entertainment, loathe as Geralt could be to admit outwardly. Geralt had never intended for Jaskier to become a _necessity_ , as imperative as air to breathe or water to drink. 

The moon was high in the sky, ink black and star-sparse, on the fourth night when Geralt gave into the driving force of misery and made the decision to seek out Jaskier. He couldn’t go on as he was; within the recesses of his mind and the depths of his being, he knew that _they_ couldn’t go on as they were. And with that decision, a choice that resembled a whim, Geralt swiftly packed up camp, put out his small fire, and mounted Roach hours before the sun met the horizon. 

It was Destiny, the fickle bitch, that brought Geralt and Roach around a bend in the road and directly upon Jaskier on the fifth day. The sight of him was many things, and all at once, but first and foremost it was a shock; Jaskier had managed to make it far on foot, farther than Geralt would have imagined given his penchant for languid bouts of sleeping if left unchecked, as well as his current emotional state of being. Jaskier must have walked through the hours that Geralt had spent thrashing about in anger and frustration upon his bedroll; a realization so deeply unnerving that it _compounded_ the feeling of regret, chasing Geralt’s shock as the second emotion that zipped through him at the sight of Jaskier around the bend. 

The third emotion that rocked through Geralt as he gazed upon Jaskier, who grew ever nearer as Roach closed the distance between them, was pure and unadulterated _fury._ It lit like bone-dry brush licked with flame, and it was then that Geralt knew that he and Roach had been noticed, as well. Never had Geralt felt such rage alive within Jaskier before, and it hurt something fierce, though Geralt knew that he deserved every drop of ire. 

As Roach didn’t seem to appreciate the urgency of the matter, Geralt dismounted the moment that he saw Jaskier pop up from where he had been laying upon the ground, atop his bedroll in the smallest of clearings just off the main path. Jaskier was still wearing the same red pants and muted blue shirt that he'd been wearing on the mountainside, his doublet no doubt stuffed within his travel sack. The colors of his clothing clashed with the brightness of the long, swaying grasses that surrounded him, and the mere sight of him angrily packing up his meager camp helped temper down the heat of fury building within Geralt’s throat with a far sweeter ache. 

Still a number of strides away, Geralt heard as Jaskier let out a pained sound. Knowing he was the cause of such agony, Geralt paused far enough back to be out of arm’s reach; not even a longsword, if wielded between them, would break skin. 

“Jaskier-”

“No.”

It was nearly a mercy that Jaskier cut him off so quickly, as Geralt could scramble and grasp for words, but he knew they would not come to him. What could he say to make up for the atrocity that he had committed? There was nothing.

“You? You don’t get to say _anything_. You get to either march your ass back over to Roach and let her carry you back the way you came, or you can stand there and watch me gather my things and walk… back the way you came, so actually, you _can’t_ go back that way, because that’s the way _I’m_ going.” Jaskier didn’t so much as glance in Geralt’s direction as he spoke, and if Geralt wasn’t so busy ensuring that his walls were stacked - and severely so - he knew that the words would be cutting. As it was, just hearing the sound of Jaskier going on and on was soothing and familiar.

“Jaskier, if I don’t get to say anything, how am I supposed to make this right?” The words came out of their own regard, and Geralt found that he couldn’t be too annoyed. A sprite of surprise bounced through the bond; at Geralt’s question, Jaskier finally paused what he was doing and turned to face him straight on. 

The foundation of Geralt’s walls, so carefully constructed, shuddered at the meeting of their eyes. Had it only taken a mere five days for Geralt to forget the ease with which he could be pulled under the surface, down into the blue depths of Jaskier’s gaze? At that particular moment, Geralt would surely drown there, and willingly so.

“Do you expect me to believe that you’ve come to grovel? Because that’s, that’s… in twenty years, you’ve not apologized to me once, you absolute _ass_ , and you expect me to believe you’ve come to know what regret feels like now?” The words, like blunt-ended arrows, took chunks out of Geralt’s defenses, Jaskier’s _betrayal-hurt-distrust_ leaking through the cracks.

“I do. I regret what I said.” Geralt opened his mouth to say something else, and drew a breath. He was awful at this, he knew, and the war within himself raged onward, ever onward; _let him go just let him leave he’s better off… I won’t survive without him and I’ve grown to not want to._

“Jaskier, I’m sorry.”

Jaskier _laughed;_ shook his head with such intensity that his wavy locks struggled to keep up with the motion, and _laughed_. Their bond betrayed the action, belaying distress rather than amusement, and Geralt folded in within himself in a moment of panic.

_‘His soul has been torn and will remain frayed, to be darned back together by a kindred soul.’_

The words of the sorceress from years before, the words that Geralt had first read shortly after Jaskier’s birth, drifted into his mind at that moment, and Geralt weighed his options in their presence. If he chose to let down the defenses that he had spent his life building and decades perfecting, he knew that he would feel every singed and tattered piece of his own frayed soul, laid bare between the two of them; he knew that Jaskier would feel it as well. Geralt knew that it wouldn’t make sense to Jaskier in quite the same way, but he had to convey his genuineness and he didn’t know how, couldn’t see another way. 

Geralt allowed his dandelion eyes to drift closed, and, once enshrouded in darkness, he focused all of his mental energy on dismantling the barrier that had been keeping Jaskier _out_ , willing instead to allow Jaskier _in_. 

Eyes still closed, Geralt licked his lips and tried again. 

“I didn’t mean what I said, Jaskier, and I’m really, truly fucking sorry.”

_And Jaskier believed him._

It was evident immediately in the way that both relief and anguish flooded Geralt’s system, causing his eyes to spring open and lock onto Jaskier, who was staring at him fully now, his eyes wide and a touch wild, a sprig of confusion, pine-bright, blossoming quickly between them. 

“You stole the best years of my life,” Jaskier rasped accusingly, and it was impossible for Geralt to discern whether the searing internal gash that opened within him at the words belonged to himself or Jaskier. Because though it was an accusation, it was also the beginning of an acceptance of Geralt’s apology, and though his apology had been sincere, Geralt also knew he didn’t deserve Jaskier’s forgiveness.

“I’ll give them back.” It was all Geralt could offer; empty words, a promise that they both knew he couldn’t fulfill. It wasn’t good enough. _He_ wasn’t good enough. _Fuck._

“I’ll do better.” He was grasping, and perhaps it had been a mistake to strip himself bare, because what was this? Desperation, fear, uncertainty in himself but _absolute certainty_ that he had made a mistake in coming to Jaskier, in asking for his forgiveness, in trying- 

“Hey, hey, now, I- I’m not sure what is happening in that head of yours, but you’re starting to freak me out, Geralt, so you’re going to have to relax, alright?” Jaskier was pleading, and the panic and confusion was growing from something tentative into something solid between them and _fuck, fuck this neverending loop_ , Geralt was going to have to calm down or else Roach was going to be the most stable, responsible one of the three within moments. 

Geralt inhaled, as deeply as possible, reaching within himself to hold firmly onto the tendril of concern that he felt from Jaskier, the warm, sticky-sweet undercurrent of love that still existed there, that would _always_ exist there between them, within them, because of their bond. 

At that thought, Geralt’s breath caught in his throat. 

In a moment of blissful fucking clarity, for the first time in nearly six score years of life, Geralt of Rivia knew _with absolute certainty_ the right thing to do. 

It was easier to exhale, then, and when he did so, a peaceful calm settled over him, blanketing him with a comfort that he hadn’t known in ages, perhaps since he was a babe himself. Geralt could still feel Jaskier’s own bewildering anxiety and a myriad of other sentiments knocking together within him, but they were easy enough to acknowledge and absorb within his own calm, which he tried his damndest to project to Jaskier in that moment, knowing full well that he would likely benefit from soothing. 

Geralt stepped closer to Jaskier, bringing them within an arm’s length of one another. Jaskier’s confusion increased, but his panic floundered and mellowed, causing Geralt’s own pleasure at the response to flow through him. Close, eyes finding Jaskier’s, Geralt ensured that he had his bard’s fullest attention before he opened his mouth to proclaim- 

“Jaskier, I need you to know that we’re soulmates.”

Jaskier didn’t move, didn’t _blink_ , the persistent buzz of confusion passing between them remaining unchanging as Geralt’s statement hung in the air, until. 

A scoff.

“Why are you doing this? Why would you say something so completely mad?” Jaskier’s voice cracked partway through, and Geralt _hoped_. 

“Is it mad? Use your brain and _think_. Have you not felt wrong throughout your life, as though your emotions didn’t belong to you? Jaskier, just take a moment to be quiet and damn well _think_.” Geralt’s tone was soft, nearly encouraging, and as much as he wished to walk Jaskier through it bit by bit, blessedly it would be unnecessary. Jaskier’s face was already draining of color by the time Geralt had finished speaking, and not another heartbeat went by before the man swayed on his feet. 

“Shit,” Geralt muttered, reaching forward to steady his friend, helping him to the ground. Laying his palms upon Jaskier’s upper arms was jolting, the way touching him had always been, only this time, _this time Jaskier noticed it as well._

“Fucking Melitele,” Jaskier choked out from where he sat, glaring at where Geralt’s hand rested on his clothed right shoulder. 

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed. 

Geralt moved to drop his hands, to give Jaskier space as he could sense an overwhelming myriad of conflicting sensations emanating from his companion. He managed to successfully remove his right hand from Jaskier’s arm; the left was quickly rooted in place, Jaskier having clasped both of his hands around Geralt’s lower forearm. The sight of those long, beautiful fingers against the tender skin of Geralt’s wrist nearly ignited him on the spot.

As Jaskier started to speak, he continued to study the places where their bodies were touching. Geralt stared at the silhouette of Jaskier’s face, his features shining bright with youth, though not quite as unblemished now at 41 years of age. Geralt thought him stunning.

“We learned of soulmates at Oxenfurt, you know. There are poems, very few, and some ballads, rarer still, that touch on the tragedies of soulmates throughout history. The rarity of them, Geralt, and the _heartache_ that often comes along with the tales of split spirits, I- you’re sure about this? I can’t parse why you would think to lie or quip about something so absolutely random, so obscure.” Jaskier paused and licked his lips; Geralt stayed quiet, breathing and watching. Their bond started to feel quieter, easier. 

Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s wrist before continuing. “It makes so much sense. I used to become so angry as a child, you know, or so scared for reasons that I could never understand. For my kindred spirit to be a witcher, well. The nightmares; they can certainly be explained away now.”

Geralt closed his eyes, a new wave of guilt cresting within him. The pressure on his forearm became nearly painful, then, and when he opened his eyes once more Jaskier was looking at him directly.

“Ah, see, how thick I’ve really been, for all this time. This is really quite extraordinary! The songs I’ll write, first of all- no, second of all, second of all. First of all, none of that, you big softie, who knew? No guilt, regret, whatever _this_ is. It’s not like this is your fault… unless it is?” 

The feeling of guilt doubled, and Geralt swallowed before he nodded. “It is. After my trials, during my training as a boy, there were additional modifications. My soul was torn apart and split then.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows rose. “Oy, so I was just… flying around out there somewhere for so long? How dreadfully boring.” He cracked a smile and released his hold on Geralt who, rather than feeling grateful, felt instantly wanting. Jaskier’s smile wobbled and he opened his mouth, no doubt to speak more on what they were _feeling_ , so Geralt interceded. 

“I can’t speak on what your half of us was doing, but my half was nearly dying. They called in a sorceress, and this is what she had to say.” Geralt withdrew an old, tattered piece of parchment from his pocket and handed it over to Jaskier gingerly, as though it were an item of reverence. 

Jaskier treated it as such, unfolding it gently. He read and re-read the words many times, based on the flickering beneath his eyelids. When he looked back up to Geralt, his eyes glowed wetly and Geralt’s heart _hurt_. 

“It’s nearly miraculous. _We’re_ nearly miraculous, Geralt, I can barely wrap my mind around it.”

Geralt shook his head, unable to stop the upturn of his lips. “How did I know that you would find it all just so… romantic?”

Whereas Jaskier had been sallow-faced, all blood drained from those typically pinkened cheeks since the moment the word ‘soulmate’ had left Geralt’s lips, stains of red blossomed upon his face and throat at that statement, ruddy in a near instant. 

_Humiliation. Fear. Sorrow._

Geralt’s own sudden confusion was thrown into this new onslaught of emotion rolling off of Jaskier in waves so dense that the bond was likely unnecessary; Geralt would have smelled them on Jaskier from across the clearing. 

“What’s happened?” Geralt demanded, wanting to know, needing to know how he had fucked up so badly in an instant so he could _fix it_ , because for a moment things had felt calm and like Jaskier may not slip through his fingers, after all. 

Jaskier cast his gaze downward, back to the grass beneath them. His voice rang unsettled when he spoke. 

“How long have you known?” 

Geralt waited, uncertain. 

“How long have you known how I… how I _want_ you?” Jaskier’s words were spoken between gritted teeth. 

If the exhaustion of having this discussion wasn’t going to be the death of Geralt, it would be the ever-mounting feelings of remorse. 

“It’s not your doing. I’ve always known, and my own desires have likely only strengthened yours. It’s the nature of the bond, you have nothing to be ashamed of, Jaskier.” Geralt reached toward Jaskier as though to settle a hand upon his knee, but was startled and froze before managing to do so, taken aback by the force by which Jaskier’s head snapped upward.

“...what.” 

It wasn’t a question, or if it was it was poorly asked, and Geralt’s brows knit. Jaskier’s eyes raked the air in front of him, as though trying to read words that weren’t there, problem solving an invisible nodus. 

Suddenly, with a snap of Jaskier’s fingers, a clarity falling over the bard’s blue eyes and a pink grin spreading across his face, the brightest taste of citrus exploded over Geralt’s tongue. 

“You-” Jaskier gasped, rocking from his sitting position until he was drawn onto his knees, mirroring Geralt’s posture, “-are a _bloody idiot._ ”

In a fraction of a moment, Jaskier wound a perfect hand into Geralt’s shirt and yanked him forward, swallowing Geralt’s utterance of surprise into his warm and wanting mouth. 

It was instantaneous, the moment their lips met in a slide of heat and titillation; Geralt had found himself in the position of kissing many others throughout his long life, women of human nature, magical nature and even unknown origins. Kissing Jaskier didn’t feel like kissing. 

Kissing Jaskier felt like _resolution_ , and Geralt found that he could’ve wept at the tidal wave of _relief_ and _finally_ and _home_ that crashed around them at the first touch of Jaskier’s tongue against his own. 

The keening sound that emanated from Geralt’s throat would have horrified him at any other time, but the loss of Jaskier’s mouth was devastating when the younger man broke away, a flurry of heaving breaths, wide eyes and kiss-swollen lips. They simply stared for a moment, Jaskier’s allegro pulse and Geralt’s nearly human-tempo heart rate thrumming, able to be felt between them. Geralt had never been able to sense Jaskier’s heart before, not from this far, and he couldn’t help a feral grin from sprouting at the sensation. 

“Whoa, now that - that is, that is new, no? That’s not happened before?” Jaskeir said, placing a hand over his heart, and reaching the other out to place over Geralt’s chest. Geralt instantly responded by covering Jaskier’s hand with his own, feeling like it was something that he could now _do_. 

“I imagine you would like to know why you’re an idiot?” Jaskier asked after a moment. 

“Hm,” Geralt debated for a beat. “If you insist on it.” His stomach clenched; he didn’t care to know, though he suspected it couldn’t be all terrible if the revelation had led to Jaskier’s lips on his. 

“Do you know why most poems and ballads about soulmates are tragedies? Because,” Jaskier sped on, not so much as pausing to give Geralt a moment to wager a guess, “it is often that soulmates _hate each other._ Or perhaps one may develop a fondness, or they may never meet. We are so rare an occurrence, but it is well enough known that simply sharing one soul does not a pair of lovers make, you dolt. Most creatures who live are of one whole soul, and they aren’t tripping over in love with themselves; many hate themselves, or are indifferent. The tragedy exists in the knowledge that two pieces of the same soul being near one another brings health and vitality, but rarely happiness and joy.”

Jaskier reached forward, cradling Geralt’s face with both hands, one on each cheek. Those hands with their soft yet calloused, long and slender fingers, the makers of music and heartache. The hands that Geralt had fallen in love with twenty-two years prior. 

“My love for you is my own, and nothing to do with our soul,” Jaskier said, and lightning traveled down Geralt’s spine at the words; immediately, Jaskier shivered and _beamed_. “And you, my big, soft, not-scary, lovely _idiot_ soulmate of mine, ‘have desires’! For me!”

Geralt, unable to restrain himself after more than two decades of drowning in adoration for the brilliant man in front of him, growled, and lunged. 

He had Jaskier on his back in no time at all, devouring his mouth and straddling his hips with rough ease. Jaskier groaned into it and moved with Geralt seamlessly, as he always had, as though they’d choreographed this fall and every moment of falling since the beginning. 

With eyes closed, breaths mingling and the ebb and flow of their bond, Geralt didn’t know nor did he care how much time might have passed, nor how it came to be that when he finally did open his eyes it was to see Jaskier above him, settled between his parted legs, one hand in Geralt’s mussed white hair and another rucked beneath his shirt, grasping tightly above Geralt’s hip. 

Jaskier was babbling by that point, lamenting of all things unfair about how _gorgeous_ and _striking_ and beautiful Geralt was as he nibbled up the side of Geralt’s throat, causing the witcher’s fingers to leave claw marks in the ground where he lay. 

“It’s not fair,” Jaskier gasped, breath hot in Geralt’s ear, teeth scraping just below the lobe, “because you make me _ache,_ you bastard.”

“ _Jas_ ” Geralt bit out, a bolt of arousal hitting him so hard as to leave him breathless and thoughtless, hips stuttering upward of their own volition to seek the friction of Jaskier’s body. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Jaskier sighed, grinding heavily downward in response, dropping his head onto Geralt’s collarbone, “Geralt, _fuck_ , call me that again?”

“Hands,” Geralt choked out, nearly pleading and feeling not an ounce of shame for doing so, “your fucking hands, on me, Jas, _please_.”

“Yes, okay, yes, I am on board, love,” Jaskier said assuredly, hand that had been lavishing Geralt’s side sliding over to skillfully unclasp Geralt’s pants. Geralt, fearing that the sight of Jaskier’s nimble and capable fingers slipping into his garments may send him over the edge before feeling his lover’s touch, focused on Jaskier’s face instead. That in itself may have been a mistake, as Geralt felt instantly fit to burst at the sight of Jaskier; hair a mess, a sheen of sweat on his skin, looking utterly ruined and carefree. 

“I love you,” Geralt said as Jaskier took him in hand and stroked. The fit of pleasure, affection and lust that bubbled forth overcame them both, doubling Jaskier over and causing Geralt to reach up blindly, burying a hand in Jaskier’s hair.

Jaskier, out of breath with his head on Geralt’s chest and his hand still wrapped around Geralt’s cock, let out a weak laugh. 

“I _felt that_ ,” he said, lips tickling Geralt’s chest hairs.

“...fuck,” Geralt replied, and then, “Jaskier. Let me feel you.”

They’d never needed many words between them, though Jaskier had always chosen to use more than necessary. No further explanation was needed, and Geralt watched as Jaskier used his free hand to push down the front of his own ridiculous red pants. In all of their years together, Geralt had never witnessed Jaskier like this; hard, full and red, and the sight, scent, and _feel_ of Jaskier’s own hand around himself lit Geralt up from the inside out. 

The fact that Jaskier’s hand wasn’t large enough to wrap around the both of them was of no fucking matter; Geralt lost himself in the dual sensation of velvet softness, wet heat and calloused fingertips the moment Jaskier pressed them together and started to move, stroking with his dexterous hand and fluttering his hips. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, the only thing he could do, white heat coiling in his belly, across their bond, through Jaskier’s body and back again, building, receding, pushing, pulling. “Jaskier, fuck, Jas. Jas-”

Jaskier whimpered with him, words and sounds and breaths, lost in the loop as well, hips starting to stutter as he fucked against Geralt with abandon, until his shortened name fell from Geralt’s lips and Jaskier tumbled first, pulling Geralt with him, crawling up his witcher’s body to kiss and cry out into his mouth as they came together over his tightened fist.

*

By the time either of them spoke again, they’d divested themselves of their sticky clothes and lay in clean pants beneath the shade of a tree nearby Jaskier’s now-abandoned camp, allowing the cooling air of early evening to dry their sweat damp skin without the constraints of shirts. Geralt leaned against the tree and Jaskier against Geralt; it was an unspoken action, a position that Jaskier fell into with easy assumption.

Geralt didn’t mind. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Jaskier asked. The question lacked the malice that Geralt felt it deserved, and was delivered with simple curiosity. 

“I had always planned on freeing you from me. I never intended on forcing you to stay.”

Jaskier snorted. “How long it’s been, love, and you’ve still to learn that I can’t be forced to do anything I don’t want? You driving me away lasted for all of, what, four days?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, despite Jaskier not being able to see. “Five.”

Jaskier twisted his head then, smiling up at Geralt. “Aww. Was someone pining? Was my poor, bereft soulmate pining?”

“Fuck off, Jaskier.”

Jaskier winked at him and maneuvered back into the position of laying against Geralt’s chest. Their heartbeats pulsed between them, bond solid and sated. Geralt wrapped an arm around Jaskier, pulling him close. 

In the 119th year of his life, Geralt of Rivia found himself darned together and whole, with all that mattered in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You stole the best years of my life/I'll give them back." - 'Marbles' by The Amazing Devil
> 
> "It's not fair/Because you make me ache, you bastard." - 'Fair' by The Amazing Devil


End file.
